


Brick by Brick

by CherryMilkshake



Series: Who would have thought you'd be a big softie? [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Falling In Love, First Meetings, M/M, Original Character(s), Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 17:46:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4929199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherryMilkshake/pseuds/CherryMilkshake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dorian first heard the Herald of Andraste was a Qunari, he became certain the whole thing was nonsense. But you know what they say about assumptions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brick by Brick

_Glittering to gloss a hidden hurt. Unlearning not to hope for more. Stumbling steps where the wall used to be._ -Cole

Dorian hadn't really known what to expect from the Herald of Andraste. 

When he'd heard the man was a Qunari, his expectations had immediately plummeted. Surely: a) the Maker wouldn't choose a brutish thug for a holy mission, so this whole business was probably just swill cooked up by the southern Chantry, or even the Qun, and b) he would probably be quite awful to talk to. Dorian did hope that the man wouldn't immediately go for the throat like the previous Qunari he'd had the misfortune of running into. 

But when Felix played his part perfectly and the Herald entered the Chantry, Dorian was knocked off guard. Far from being thuggish, the man was positively graceful when he moved, wicked daggers the length of shortswords flashing in the light of the rift. And his voice was soft and _Ferelden_ -accented of all things. Surely not Qunari then. Tal-Vashoth maybe?

And that mark! Absolutely fascinating. He had no idea how it worked. Dorian wanted to study it, but alas, there were more pressing matters to be attended to.

"Careful, Boss," came the rumbling voice of a more typical Qunari, human-sized weapon and all. "The pretty ones are always the worst."

Dorian preened, brushing off the Qunari's suspicions. "Suspicious friends you have there, Herald!" He could see the open distrust on the scarred face, even with the eyepatch. If the real Qunari was so protective, perhaps the Herald was a Qunari spy after all? Oh, goodie. 

But regardless, they talked for awhile and formed a nascent plan, to be fleshed out later. After the Herald and his little group left, Felix looked at Dorian. "What do you think of him?" he asked.

Dorian frowned. "I'm… not sure what to think, to be honest. He's certainly more eloquent than I was expecting, and Maker, I want to study that thing on his hand so much I actually feel my heart crying out in pain that we have other priorities. But I don't know if he's divine, or anything like that."

Felix nodded thoughtfully. "He was surprisingly smooth with my father. And he seemed genuinely concerned for the mages around Redcliffe. I saw him down by the docks talking to that young man, Connor? The one the villagers all avoid. And then to the elf widower near the bookseller."

"So you're saying he's a do-gooder? Also, how have you had time to notice all of this while your father fusses endlessly?"

Felix chuckled. "Multi-tasking, Dorian." But then he sighed. "I really need to get back. He's going to notice I'm gone soon. Stay safe?"

"Only if you do the same."

Their embrace was short, but Dorian wondered, not for the first time, if this was what family was supposed to feel like.

The creak and slam of the Chantry's front door echoed off the walls, and for a moment, Dorian was struck by a sudden sense of loneliness, and the heavy weight of foreboding. He shook it off, and went out the back door.

\-- 

The next time Dorian saw the Herald, he was walking into Alexius's snare, flanked by two half-naked men, the Qunari from before, and a beardless dwarf with a crossbow the size of his torso. He looked vaguely familiar, but Dorian couldn't place him. The dwarf looked a little silly next to the two horned giants.

The plan worked perfectly. The Herald kept Alexius busy, the spymaster's people got in without a hitch, and everything seemed like it was going to work out with minimal fuss.

But even Dorian could never have predicted the turn that events would take. 

The future was dark and hummed with a sick song. The red lyrium made his head ache, its song muffled like too-distant music, twin desires to hear better and not at all warring within him. The Herald didn't seem as affected—Dorian wondered if it was a Qunari thing or a non-mage thing. Either way, he kept the pain to himself, focusing instead on how in the bloody world they were going to get back in time to stop any of this from happening.

The Herald, who had started the adventure calm and perhaps even a bit flirtatious, sobered quickly when they found the Qunari, body glowing and humming with that sick, sick song, eye rimmed with unnatural red. 

The dwarf wasn't any better, and the Herald's face grew graver. His big gray hands, dotted with freckles, trembled when they didn't have a dagger in them. 

It was the sounds of torture that pushed him over the edge. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he used the daggers to simply tear the cultists apart, blood and bone and gore splattering to the floor as he breathed shallowly, mouth open, teeth bared. 

"Bring it back, Boss," the Qunari said, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Let's get to your Spymaster."

The Herald shuddered, but forced his breath deeper into his chest, closing his eyes. "Right. Thank you, Bull." He knelt and readjusted the Chantry sister's body to something more dignified, closing her eyes.

Dorian had heard about Qunari battle rage before, but he had never seen it in person. Honestly, it had seemed like one of those things magisters invented to make their enemies out to be savages. But what else could that have been?

Dorian kept a bit further distance from the Herald, just in case. He thought maybe he'd noticed when he caught a glance of a resigned stare directed at him, but before Dorian could examine it further, they were through the doors to the throne room and he caught sight of Felix. 

Or. Whatever Felix had become.

Dorian felt the bile rise up his throat, and though the Herald tried to coax Alexius down, Sister Nightingale was having none of it. The relief Dorian felt at watching the thing in Felix's skin collapse to the ground was almost as chilling as the thing itself.

Fighting Alexius was almost easy after that. He knew all of the old man's techniques, because he'd taught many of them to Dorian. It was the Herald's dagger that brought his end, and somewhere in his heart, Dorian found it was fitting.

"Is this the amulet?" he asked, pulling it from the corpse's neck and holding it out to Dorian.

It was. Thank the Maker, there was still a chance.

A very small one, after Sister Nightingale revealed they had precious little time left.

The Herald almost got left behind, which would have been disastrous, since he was apparently the only thing standing between Thedas and _that_. And when they arrived back in the past (the present?), the Herald's face was still streaked with tears as he had Alexius clapped in irons and then allied the Inquisition with the southern mages in front of the king.

As the Inquisition soldiers took Alexius away, Dorian walked beside Felix. "What are you going to do now?" he asked. 

Felix sighed as he watched his father's stooped back ahead. "I'll return to Tevinter for now. The Magisterium needs to hear about what happened, and they need to hear it from someone's who's not in this insane cult."

"Will you be alright?" Dorian's voice was quiet. _Will you even make it there alive?_ hung unspoken between them.

"I've still got a pretty hefty stock of my father's potions and powders. I'll get there." 

Dorian noticed he didn't say he'd last long after that. He pulled Felix into a tight hug, hating the tears that burned in his eyes. That feeling of loneliness welled up again, pulling at his heart. With Felix and Alexius both gone, the estate in Asariel would sit empty until it was reclaimed by the Magisterium, and he was no longer welcome at the Pavus estate in Qarinus. 

There would be no home left for him anymore.

Felix patted his back. "What about you, Dorian?"

And Dorian pulled away, staring out to the head of the little caravan of mages where the Herald rode, his curling horns easy to spot. "I think I'll join the Inquisition, if they'll have me."

Felix smiled. "They'd be foolish not to."

\-- 

Haven was a nest of the faithful, even with the fabled Sacred Ashes gone. He met some more of the Herald's people. An impressive bunch, truly. The dwarf turned out to be Varric Tethras, whose books had started to trickle into the Imperium like some sort of pox. No wonder he'd looked familiar—he had a dreadful portrait of himself on the back of every book. 

After informing the Herald of his joining—and trying ineffectually to ignore the hopeful smile on that round, freckled face—Dorian wandered around Haven. It didn't take long for the people to recognize him as Tevinter, nor for them to react with anger and disgust.

Ah, he'd almost forgotten how it felt to be a pariah. 

He found a quiet spot near the apothecary and Haven's resident Fade expert—a strange bald elf named Solas. When asked if his name bore any relation to the city near the Nevarran border, he received only a blank stare. 

He wasn't entirely surprised to be cold-shouldered by a free elf, but Solas seemed happy enough to leave him alone if Dorian did so in return. So he watched the Breach and read his books, and occasionally went traipsing around Ferelden with the Herald, the Seeker, and Varric Tethras. It seemed almost like the lead-in of a joke: a Qunari, a Seeker, a dwarf and a "magister" (as they all called him here) walk into a bar, etc., etc. 

Witnessing the birth of a cult in the Hinterlands was interesting. 

Sometimes, when they needed extra muscle Dorian supposed, the Herald brought along the Qunari, apparently named the Iron Bull. Watching his interactions with the Herald, it became clear to Dorian that if the Herald was a Qunari spy, he certainly didn't know much about Qunari. It also became clear that the Iron Bull was a spy, though to be fair, he was remarkably open about it.

"So you're Tal-Vashoth then?" Dorian asked the Herald one evening in Haven. Even at night, the Breach glowed eerily overhead. 

"Something like that," he said, rubbing the short black hair between his curling horns. "I was born in Ferelden though, so the more correct term would be just 'Vashoth'."

Dorian tilted his head. "What is the difference, exactly?"

"Tal-Vashoth means you lived under the Qun and left. That's my parents. Vashoth means you've never known the Qun. That's me."

"Fascinating. What do they translate to? If you know, of course."

"Vashoth means 'grey', as far as I know. But Qunlat is a pretty… figurative language. It probably means many things beyond the color. Tal means 'true', but same deal on the 'many other meanings' front probably."

"So, a Tal-Vashoth is a 'true grey'," Dorian said to himself. "Interesting. I wonder if there's some sort of metaphor in there about the Qun bringing color to that grey, or some nonsense like that."

The Herald shrugged. "I have no idea. You could try asking Bull."

Dorian chuckled. "Surprisingly, I don't think he likes me all that much. Besides, you're much more pleasant company." 

He smiled at that, and Dorian was forced to admit to himself that, yes, the Herald was a good-looking man. Young, though a little baby-faced, so Dorian couldn't quite place how old he was, with pale gray skin positively starry with freckles and a soft-looking nose that filled Dorian with the absurd urge to poke it. 

And the muscles. Ugh. He'd seen the Herald out of his armor now, living in Haven, and once shirtless, doing something terribly masculine and sweaty with the Bull. The freckles did, in fact, cover much of his shoulders and back.

Dorian didn't know whether to thank the Maker or curse Him. 

"So, you said you aren't a magister," the Herald began, cutting into Dorian's thoughts. "Is there some title for what you are, or just 'mage'?"

"I'm glad you asked! Tevinter does love its fancy words. I am what's called an 'altus'." 

\-- 

Closing the Breach was an event, and the party afterward was quite fun. The atmosphere of Haven transformed entirely, from sour-faced peasants waiting for the sky to fall to joyous laughter and dancing. 

Dorian looked toward the Herald, standing near the bonfire, a little proud smile on his face, and sipped his brandy. He admitted to some skepticism that the Herald would pull it off, but he had never been happier to be wrong.

When the warning bell began to ring, that happiness dropped right out of his stomach.

"Dorian!" the Herald called. "Help me get to the trebuchets!"

The templars streaming over the walls were horrifying, humming with that same broken song as the doomed future. Or at least, Dorian hoped fervently that it was a doomed future, and not the _near_ future. 

That option started looking a lot less likely when the archdemon showed up.

"Get everyone to the Chantry!" the Commander was yelling. Then, in a smaller voice, Dorian heard him mutter. "At this point, just make them work for it."

But still, the Maker offered a miracle in the form of the snippy Chancellor Roderick. Let it never be said He doesn't have a sense of humor.

And cruelty. 

Dorian watched from the mountains as Haven vanished under snow and ice, the Herald buried with it. 

More than anything, Dorian felt a loss of potential. He had liked the Herald. Quite a lot, actually. Still, this was no time for tears. The caravan made its way deeper into the mountains, oddly silent for such a large group.

No one knew where they were going, and as a blizzard flared up, they decided to make camp in a valley, wherein the advisors took to fighting. 

"He may have escaped!" the Commander was saying. "We need to go back and search!"

"And lose _more_ people to this disaster?!" Sister Nightingale countered. 

"Perhaps you could send some scouts, Leliana," Lady Montilyet said placatingly. "They could look for any signs of survivors, the Herald and any others."

"It is a blizzard. They would die," the Seeker said angrily. 

The Commander brought his fist down on the makeshift war table. "And if the Herald lives, it won't be for long if we don't look!"

Dorian tried to block it out. He finished the brandy lingering in his flask, but it tasted sour now, uncomfortably like blood. He looked to some of the Herald's other companions. Sera was leaning against the Warden, her eyes red and puffy even though she was no longer crying. The Bull was sitting with his men, plus Varric, pouring a mug of ale into the ground to honor the Herald's sacrifice. Even Madame de Fer was unusually sober as she sat with her staff in her lap, mechanically running her palm up and down, cleansing it. 

Eventually the Commander won and got his search party. 

And when they managed to actually return with the Herald, shivering and clearly feverish, but _alive_ , well. Dorian looked up at the sky, toward where the Breach had been, and murmured a thanks to Andraste for sending Her Herald to Thedas.

He didn't think about Corypheus. Or what his very existence meant.

\-- 

Skyhold was a fortress worthy of the Inquisition, despite the years wearing heavy on its walls. The first few days were fraught with activity, pilgrims arriving, workers building, nobles tittering. Dorian was given his own room. It was small, but the fireplace was set with wood and kindling, and there was a little window overlooking the garden. The bed and desk were clearly old, but well-repaired and clean. He noted that there was also a new bookshelf set beside the window, the wood still smelling faintly of the stain used to color it. On the top shelf, a book lay open.

Dorian pulled it into his hands, holding the page with one while he flipped to the cover page. _Collected Notes of Brother Genitivi_. Curious, he looked at the page it'd been left open on. _Vashoth: The Grey Ones_ was written across the top, and it appeared to be a transcription of a conversation Genitivi had had with a goat-herder in Nevarra. A Vashoth woman.

Dorian smiled as he closed the book and set it back on the shelf. He knew who had put the bookshelf here.

He spent the next few hours organizing the room, making it his own. He'd always had a fondness for organizing a new bookshelf. And he made notes of things to change. New curtains for the window, a warmer coverlet for the bed, a rug for the floor, etc. He was ashamed of the thought that floated across his mind—just ask the Herald; he would give you anything you asked for. 

Dorian didn't want that kind of power. 

He spent the next hour doing his finances. The Inquisition had been paying him a small salary, so he could budget out the money until he had enough to order what he needed from the quartermaster. Older clothes would have to be repaired rather than replaced, but he supposed he should get used to that if he were going to be a pariah forever. Somehow, the thought was both freeing and depressing. 

He didn't think about the ancient magisters who broke into the Fade, whom the southern Chantry claimed became the first darkspawn. 

Getting out of this room would probably be wise, he thought to himself, closing the journal he'd been working in. Perhaps he could help arrange the library? The Inquisition did not have a particularly large collection (yet, he hoped), and he did like organizing books.

It was easy enough to find it, and he joined the one of the Tranquil mages and two of Leliana's people in setting the place up. The Tranquil's presence was unnerving. Before coming south, he had never seen so many. He had asked the Seeker about them once, and knowing that they were mages deemed "too weak" to wield magic did not set his mind at ease. It had made him think of Felix, barred from the Circles because of his limited magical talent, and what he might look like, had he been born in Orlais, rather than Tevinter.

"I believe this belongs in your section, Messere Pavus," the Tranquil said, her voice soft and flat, her eyes blank.

He fought back a shudder and smiled. "Thank you. What is your name again?"

"I am Helisma Derington."

With a nod, he said, "Thank you then, Miss Derington."

"You are welcome." She returned to her task. 

Well, he thought to himself, at least she wasn't rude about his origins. It was much better than the red-haired elven woman with face tattoos who was glaring at him over every book she picked up. 

"Seeker Pentaghast is asking for everyone to gather in the courtyard," a new voice said, and Dorian looked up to see a man in one of those silly green hoods the scouts wore.

"Right away," Helisma said, getting to her feet. Dorian walked with the little group out into the courtyard. Once it seemed like everyone from Haven had packed themselves in, the Seeker lead the Herald up the stairs to stand with Sister Nightingale, who was holding an ornate sword.

He dwarfed them both. 

Dorian figured out what they were doing even before it seemed the Herald did. He seemed genuinely surprised when Sister Nightingale offered him the grand ornamental blade. 

"Inquisition," the Commander called, turning to the crowd. "Will you follow?"

Dorian joined in the cheering, if only to see the pleased blush that rose up into the Herald—no, the _Inquisitor's_ cheeks. 

It was time for another celebration it seemed, but Dorian was happy to return to the library. He had to prove to himself that the Inquisition's collection was not so dreadfully understocked as it had appeared at first glance.

He didn't think about Haven.

\-- 

The Inquisitor himself appeared in the library the next day, looking around with excitement. "It looks very nice," he said to the red-haired elf. "You and Rion did a good job."

"We had help," she said. "Helisma. And the Tevinter." She thumbed toward Dorian, who had set himself up with a nice chair near the window. He resisted the urge to make a crude gesture at her. What would even be the point?

When the Inquisitor's gaze fell on him, all the thoughts and feelings he'd been pushing down from Haven flooded back up. Corypheus. The magister. One of the magisters who broke open the Fade. A darkspawn. 

The words bubbled up like bile, long rambling sentences that he knew were coming out too harshly to be joking. 

Dorian tried to calm himself down, raising an eyebrow at the Inquisitor. "Am I speaking too quickly for you?" he asked.

The Inquisitor blinked, then blushed. "Ah, no, I was just. Distracted."

Dorian felt the smirk on his face before he consciously decided to put it there. "By my wit and charm? I have plenty of both."

The Inquisitor chuckled. Maker, he had _dimples_. This was not fair in the slightest.

But the mood sobered and they spoke seriously for a time, about religion and the Imperium and Corypheus. 

The Inquisitor was an optimist. Dorian wondered how long it would last in a position like his. He didn't wonder how it would feel to disappear into those giant arms or taste the little scars that ran into those soft lips.

He sipped from the flask of brandy he kept at his hip and didn't wonder about anything at all.

\-- 

The letter runner was an unassuming young elven woman with big grey eyes and a nervous demeanor. Dorian didn't know if that were just her nature or if his presence induced it. "Letter for you, Messere Pavus," she said, holding out the envelope. 

He handed her a copper for her trouble and cut through the sealing wax with an easy force spell. It was the seal of House Alexius.

Three letters were enclosed, the first from Felix. He wrote about the report he gave to the Magisterium and said that Magister Tilani would likely soon be in contact with Dorian about moving things forward. He was happy Maevaris was taking charge—that woman knew how to bend the Magisterium to her iron will. The second letter was from her, her neat, round hand explaining Felix's speech in less humble terms, describing how many favors he spent getting the senate to assemble in a timely manner, and how well he delivered his plea, asking the Imperium to stand against this vicious threat, likening the Venatori to an insidious illness. How apt. 

The third letter was from the executor of the Alexius estate. With Gereon expelled from the Imperium and Felix dead—

Dorian sat down abruptly. He'd been expecting it, but somehow that didn't make it any easier. He'd said his goodbyes in Redcliffe, and yet… He let his head fall into his hands, the letter crumpled up against his temple. He would read the rest eventually.

The Inquisitor had remarkable timing. "Dorian?" he asked. "Is everything alright?"

"You remember Felix, Alexius' son?" Dorian asked. "He's dead."

"Maker… Dorian, I'm so sorry." A big, warm hand fell onto his shoulder, squeezing gently. 

"Don't be. He was ill and on borrowed time anyhow." But he didn't move the Inquisitor's hand.

When Dorian looked up (and up) at the qunari's face, he was perplexed by the expression he saw there. "You and Felix," he began slowly. "Were you perhaps…"

"Felix and I?" Dorian was taken aback. Surely that wasn't jealousy on the Inquisitor's face, was it? "What an odd question."

The Inquisitor's face was slowly turning red, and he withdrew his hand. 

Dorian decided to sate his curiosity. "No, Felix and I were not together in any sense. I was not about to risk Alexius' displeasure by seducing his son."

A thought settled, heavy and cold, in the pit of his stomach. Did Alexius know?

After the Inquisitor left, Dorian made his way up to the rookery, where Sister Nightingale sat at her desk, going over reports. "I hate to disturb you, but I have a question."

She looked up, her eyes piercing even in the dappled light coming in from the window. "Ask."

"Did Alexius receive any letters today? Or recently?"

She consulted one of the many papers. "No, not at all. Why?"

He let out a shaky breath. "Just wondering. Thank you." And before he could think better of it, he was walking out of the main tower and down to the dungeons. The guard on duty was reluctant to let him by, but she couldn't seem to think of a good reason to bar him.

The waterfall roared in the air, and Dorian was immediately damp. He hoped they were going to do something about that soon. 

Alexius was one of the only people locked up. Dorian approached silently, reaching out to put his hand on the bars. 

The man glared at him. "What do you want, Dorian? Come to gloat?" 

Dorian shook his head. "Felix returned to the Imperium after the whole fiasco at Redcliffe. He died two weeks ago. I felt it important to inform you of that." He turned away before Alexius could answer, making his way carefully back toward the stairs.

He pretended he didn't hear the shuddering sobs behind him, all too clear over the waterfall's crashing.

Thank the Maker the tavern was now open for business. He bought a mug for Felix and spent the rest of the evening drinking. He woke early the next morning with a splitting headache, still sitting at the counter. Someone had put a blanket over him.

\-- 

The Inquisitor spared Alexius' life, and put him to work for the Inquisition. Though Dorian could hear the nobles' tittering in disapproval as he walked around Skyhold, he found he was relieved. His relationship with Alexius was surely ruined, but it was still good to know he was back to working toward a better future.

"Have you gone to see him?" the Inquisitor asked one afternoon after he returned from a trip to Val Royeaux. 

Dorian lied, said he hadn't yet. It was a partial truth—he _hadn't_ seen Alexius since the Inquisitor's judgment. "I don't know if I will," he said, and that was a whole truth. 

The Inquisitor nodded understandingly, but he lingered, his hand in his pocket. He had something else to say.

Dorian waited patiently.

"I have a letter to show you," he said at last.

Dorian smirked. "Is it a naughty letter?" he teased, just to watch the qunari's face light up. 

"No, nothing like that," he said, his voice remarkably controlled despite the blushing. "It's from your father."

Bile rose in Dorian's throat, all pleasant teasing forgotten. "Give me that." He snatched it from the Inquisitor's hand, unfolding it to read.

\-- 

The journey to Redcliffe was quiet. The Inquisitor had asked Cassandra to accompany them, just in case something happened, but he had purposely kept the traveling party small and free of gossips, which Dorian appreciated.

The Inquisitor and Cassandra chatted amiably for much of the trip, and Dorian was struck by a sudden thought that they looked _good_ together, for all their apparent differences. He shook his head to clear it, thankful that the Inquisitor had not brought the spirit boy who liked to rifle through thoughts.

He wondered who his father had sent to collect him. Surely not one of the slaves—the south frowned heavily on being reminded that slavery existed, and his father wasn't that stupid. Perhaps he hired someone? Briefly, he wondered if his father had managed to hire one of his friends from the Circle in Minrathous, and thought of Rilienus. But no, he didn't think his father was that clever either. Besides, the way things ended with Rilienus… It was highly unlikely. The mystery remained. 

Redcliffe did not seem particularly happy to see him—it was the Tevinter in him, he was sure. He briefly contemplated shaving and dressing differently, but that would be admitting defeat. He rode into the town with his head held high.

Cassandra stayed outside with the horses while Dorian and the Inquisitor entered the tavern to find this "retainer", whoever it could be. However, when the tavern was _empty_ , well. Dorian could never have been prepared for what followed.

He was breathing heavily after he finished yelling at his father, hands heavy on the table he clung to like a lifeline. He cursed the tears that stung his eyes. He should have thought his father would be here, but he hadn't been prepared at all. 

The Inquisitor's hand on his arm was gentle. "Do you want to go, Dorian?" he asked in a soft voice.

Dorian nodded sharply and pushed back from the table. "Let's go."

"Dorian—!" his father tried, but the door swung closed behind them. 

Cassandra looked at them with concern. "Is everything alright?" she asked.

The Inquisitor answered her with a quick shake of his head and gave Dorian a hand getting back into the saddle. Even when they made camp that night, the Inquisitor gave Dorian space, distracting Cassandra every time it seemed like she had made up her mind to say something to him.

Back at Skyhold, Dorian holed up in his corner of the library, at times pretending to read in order to look busy. But mostly he lingered by the window, people watching. The Inquisition's people were filled with such purpose. There was hardly an idle body. And yet, it was like watching animals. He felt… apart from them. He couldn't understand what drove them. 

He heard soft footfalls stop behind him and turned. The Inquisitor had a much lighter step than one would expect from such a big man. "Are you alright?" he asked gently.

"Not really," Dorian said, making an attempt at levity. Attempt failed, he turned back to the window, watching a woman with a baby in a sling against her chest. She was running supplies down to the surgeon in the lower courtyard.

He struggled to find words, tried to explain why he understood his father's presence here, even if the man would never understand what it was he did wrong. He didn't know if he was making any sense.

It felt both good and bad to tell the Inquisitor everything. It left his heart lighter, but his head aching. 

"What about you?" he said at last, trying to shift the subject off of him for a little while. "You've 'more than heard of' such things, or so you said. Tell me about that."

The Inquisitor rubbed the back of his neck, a blush darkening his cheeks. "It was never particularly dramatic. Shortly after my family moved north toward the Waking Sea, there was a merchant and her two sons who often passed by our house on their way into Highever. The younger son was about my age. He had lovely dark skin the like of which I hadn't seen before. I developed quite a crush.

"My parents thought it was sweet. My father invited the family in for dinner once. I made a complete fool of myself, as young men in adolescence do. The evening ended with me heartbroken in my room and my father having a good laugh with the merchant about being young again." He sighed and shook his head at the memory.

Dorian wondered if he would be different, if his parents had been so accepting when he was younger. But he smirked. "You poor thing. The follies of youth."

The Inquisitor snorted. "As if you don't have any such tales."

"Oh I have plenty, I just don't share them sober." Dorian chuckled. 

"Are you inviting me out for a drink?" the Inquisitor teased. 

"Why, what a fine idea. You definitely should join me sometime." He hesitated. "Though not today. Today I'd rather be alone."

He nodded. "Of course."

Dorian sighed and shook his head. "Maker knows why you'd want to though, after that whole display."

"I don't think less of you, Dorian," he said, smiling. "In fact, I think I may even think more."

Dorian's stomach flipped. "The things you say." He swallowed, looking up to meet the Inquisitor's gaze. "My father will never understand. Living a lie, it festers inside you, like poison."

The Inquisitor looked so serious, concern written in the lines of his eyes, the tightness of his lips. Concern for him, his feelings, his needs and desires. 

Before Dorian could talk himself out of it, he steeled himself. "You have to fight for what's in your heart." He stepped forward and leaned up, up as far as he could go, to press his lips to the Inquisitor's.

For one heart-shattering moment, there was no response. But before he could react, the Inquisitor's arms came up under his thighs, lifting him up so their heads were on the same level. Dorian clutched the horrid beige fabric the qunari insisted on clothing himself in and deepened the kiss, now that he had some leverage. 

Adaar's lips were softer than he could have ever imagined.


End file.
